Les Miserables and Zombies
by Aggravate.the.Axe
Summary: It started in the year of 1815. A mysterious and vicious sickness plagued the country of France. One of the places most affected in that year was a town called Digne, home of the honorable Monseigneur Bienvenu...warning, OOC in some places. I've returned!
1. Chapter 1: The Dojo of Digne

**Here it is—enjoy! By the way, this is not going to be random humor. Les Mis with zombies! What more can I give in the humor department?**

**PART ONE: WHAT HAPPENS IN DIGNE DOES NOT STAY IN DIGNE FOREVER**

It started in the year of 1815. A mysterious and vicious sickness plagued the country of France. One of the places most affected in that year was a town called Digne, home of the honorable Monseigneur Bienvenu.

In this year, the bishop did something he had never done before: he changed his budget drastically. Taking a little money—really, an unpretentious amount—from each of his expenses, he put it in one account, labeled on his notes as "_Dojo_."

Yes, the Bishop of Digne was saving money to build a dojo, and not just for him, no, but for the community. Ever since zombies had been infesting the town, the good bishop had been wondering, was there anything he could do to help protect the people of Digne? Now he saw only one way, and that was to teach them not only the deadly arts, but self-control as well. The zombies of Digne wouldn't know what had hit them.

"We have tried," he reasoned, "to talk sense to these beings. It is really too bad that this is what's come of the dead. They are Satan's servants now…but, it is still trying." He honestly didn't want to hurt anybody, but for the greater good, he would unleash his wrath. "But surely, this is God's wish, perhaps to help us adapt. For death is God's and God's alone."

So, in time, the Bishop of Digne built his dojo. It was built next to the hospital that was once the bishop's palace. The Dojo of Digne was immensely popular with male and female students alike, and the zombie population slowly decreased. The bishop became Grand Master Bienvenu, and was the Yoda of 1815.

One night, while reading about Ancient Monkey Kung Fu, he was so absorbed in his thoughts; he was not even seeing the words on the page. A note could be found scribbled on the book the next morning: "_The ninja that is merciful and possesses self control is wiser than the vain, careless ninja. The deadly arts are to only be used in desperation."_

This was his theory, and a correct theory it was. The author of this fanfic took karate for a short time, and this was the first thing she learned. So, as one can see, the Bishop of Digne was a wise man and a wise ninja.

Still, the bishop left his doors unlocked. He did not even prepare to fight any intruder that may come in, living and dead alike. For, as he said, God would protect him if it was his wish. His home housed God's love and no demon could penetrate that. As for the living, why fear death? Unless he had the plague, which he did not, there was no reason to fear death. Even if the intruder did not hurt him, what are material comforts but that? And so he did not lock his doors, or the dojo doors.

The only material items he was attached to were his favorite pair of nunchucks and his jewel-encrusted Tai Chi sash. These items were proudly mounted on the wall of his dining room, and these were the only things of which he was proud.

The bishop was a brave individual. Once he even ventured to a town to which he owed a visit. The road was dangerous and riddled with hordes of zombies, but he went anyway and came back a fortnight later with a bag full of zombie heads.

He lived with two women—one being his sister, the other one being his sister's maid.

His sister was Mademoiselle Baptistine, a thin, pale creature who was much too gentle—and even fragile—to be _very_ educated in the deadly arts. She had never been pretty all her life, but her kindness gave her what might be called the beauty of goodness. She knew enough to beat a zombie to second-death out of sheer terror and desperation (she'd had to do this only once before) but other than that, not much else.

Mlle Baptistine's—and the bishop's—maid was Madame Magloire, a short, plump woman who was always busy and always breathless. She, unlike Mlle Baptistine, was trained in several forms of unarmed combat, some of which she had mastered. Whenever a zombie dare enter the yard, she would go racing out and hit him over the head with her battered sparring sword. She was less squeamish about slaying the undead than her mistress and bishop.

Nothing could have been simpler than the bishop's bedroom. There was a French window opposite the bed (an iron bed, with a canopy of green serge) that looked out onto the garden. His bookcase was a large cupboard with glass doors and filled. The chimney was wood and painted to represent marble, without fire. Above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix with the silver worn off—it on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden frame with no gilding.

Two portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of the bed. The portraits were of Confucius, the wise Chinese philosopher; the other Loa Tzu, another wise, Taoist philosopher. When the Bishop moved to this room, after the hospital patients, he had found these portraits there, and had left them. They were philosophers, and wasn't the bishop also a philosopher? He knew who they were because Mme Magloire, having taken the pictures down to dust, had discovered these particulars written on a square of yellowed paper attached to the back of the portrait of Confucius.

Such was the life of the Grand Master Bienvenu of Digne.

There was a man, withdrawn from society, who was named Master G. He was a widely known samurai, though not well liked, nor was he honorable like a samurai should be. He lived in solitude not far away from Digne. Unfortunately, he was suffering from the plague and was said to on the brink of death. He was a violent samurai who did not give the zombies he fought a quick death. If someone approached his home, he would send his apprentice to attack them, being now too old to do it himself, although he didn't care to admit it. He had heard of the Dojo of Digne and the Grand Master Bienvenu, but thought nothing of them. "The whole population of Digne now consists of only ninjas. They are nothing special, and they certainly don't have anything like _my_ fortress."

It was true, they did not. The ninjas of Digne lived fairly normal lives, besides their education in the deadly arts. Master G's abode, small though it was, was surrounded by a nine-foot high wall made of timber sharpened at the tips. On top of that, daggers lined the top of the wall near the sharpened tips, for maximum protection. His house itself was a large tent with mats for sleeping and whatnot. His apprentice had a similar, smaller tent. The fortress, which was unnamed, had never been taken by the zombies. Of course, it had been stormed, but the fortress and the man inside were so talented that the living dead stood no chance.

As one can tell, he was not a good samurai, and because of this the ninjas of Digne kept their distance and whispered nasty things about him.

About how the ninjas of Digne knew that Master G was plagued—the apprentice of Master G was sent for a doctor, but, finding no one who would attend a dishonorable samurai with a dangerous plague, came back with the bishop instead.

Along the road, the young boy was unusually jittery. "Is there anything wrong?" Master Bienvenu asked after the samurai's apprentice jumped at a small animal scurrying across the way.

"I am fine," the boy replied. "I had a…unpleasant experience with a few undead on my way to Digne. I was almost taken."

The bishop was about to say something when a loud grunt sounded from behind them. They both whipped around and Master Bienvenu narrowed his eyes, seeing two female and one male undead lumbering toward them at an alarming speed.

"Listen," he said quickly to the apprentice. "Kill them as fast as you can. The merciful ninja is the wiser." This, as we know, was a very important guideline the bishop followed.

The boy nodded, too scared to disagree. He drew his sword from its metal sheath and got into a fighting stance. The bishop pulled a dagger from his stick, which was hollowed out, and discarded the shell. "Urrghhh!" one of the zombies groaned, lunging at the bishop. He slashed her head off, wincing a bit. She was an old one, anyway...

The boy slashed the male zombie through its skull and half of its chest. Dust flew from the inside of its body, temporarily blinding the boy. The last zombie was careening toward him, though, and Master Bienvenu jumped in front of it, cutting off the its head as quick as possible—another wince. He was a fairly young zombie—blood burst from the wound and the bishop barely avoided it, pushing the apprentice out of the way first.

The boy was shuddering, shaking the dust off of his sword. The bishop wiped his blood-stained dagger on the grass. "Come," he said. "We will need to move faster, apparently."

Master G was sharpening his swords when the bishop entered the fortress with the young apprentice. "Well!" he exclaimed upon seeing the bishop. "The first _live _person to visit me and I have no idea who you are! Enlighten me, Monsieur."

"My name is Grand Master Bienvenu Myriel," the bishop returned.

"Upon my sword, the name doesn't sound familiar, but I do recall there being a Grand Master ninja about...." The old man smiled. "If I'm not mistaken, you are Monseigneur Bienvenu."

"I am."

"In any case, that means that you are my bishop."

"More or less."

"Do not worry, Monsieur. You are a knowledgeable man, and you're welcome in my own little dojo." He held out a sword to the bishop. "Duel?"

The bishop pushed away the sword. "You don't seem very ill, wanting to duel. Are you sure you have this mysterious plague?"

"Quite sure, Monsieur. I have all of the symptoms, of course. I must have caught it while fighting a zombie…it was quite a young one, too. Its flesh had not even turned that sickly green color it does. Perhaps when her blood spattered on me—"

"Please," Master Bienvenu said quickly, cutting him short.

"But of course you wouldn't want to hear _that_, I understand." He raised an eyebrow at the apprentice. "My lad, you look quite disheveled."

"We encountered a few undead on our way here," Master Bienvenu replied for the young boy, who had been caught unawares by the zombies and was still recovering.

"I see," the old man said sympathetically, and smiled at the boy. "You must want to rest. Go, sleep." The boy nodded and went quickly.

"I'm going to die soon," Master G said after a long silence. "Tonight."

The bishop remained silent. Regrettably, he was not as moved as he should have been. As far as he knew, the man was not wise—he was a merciless and dishonorable samurai. He killed the undead without mercy. Even Satan's servants deserved a little peace, didn't they? They were once human beings. They were dead, and the dead—however bloodthirsty they may be—deserved some amount of respect (of course, this 'amount of respect' depended on how many of your limbs they had eaten). "I wanted the boy to be asleep when it happened. It will be better this way."

After the bishop continued on in silence, Master G said, "Bishop?" as if asking if he were still awake.

"Why enjoy it?" the bishop asked. "Why enjoy slaying the dead without mercy?"

The old man looked at the floor of his tent. "I see how it is," he said quietly. "Well, Monsieur, I know that there is no excuse for it."

The bishop was generally surprised by this. "You—?" Master G cut him short.

"I do, though not with ease." The samurai sat on a pillow with a bit of difficulty. He crossed his legs in the lotus position, as if he was about to meditate.

"What do you mean?"

"All of my life, I have been told that a samurai is supposed to be honorable, but what about when his home is stormed by undead creatures? What then? Am I to let myself be killed over honor? I simply don't understand how what I'm doing is wrong. They can't _feel_ pain anymore."

The bishop was about to say something, but Master G continued. "On the other hand, yes, they should be left at peace as much as possible. Certainly their strange illness wasn't their fault, they were merely trying to protect themselves…I see that now, now that I have their ailment."

"You repent because you understand what they endured?"

"Partly. Monsieur, I have never been a _very_ religious person. I thought maybe there was a God, maybe there wasn't. Perhaps we just turn to dust after death! But now…with these undead, I can see that if there is a force evil enough to have them rise from their graves, there must be one good enough to penetrate it. So, then, God mustn't be a tale, He has to be real. Does that seem right to you, Monsieur Bishop?"

The bishop said, "It is not up to me to decide your beliefs, Master G. Only you can do that."

"But do you agree?"

"I do," he answered honestly.

"I wonder if we are right."

"That is for God to know, Master G," the bishop said.

He nodded. "I think I'll trust Him with that decision. I think…I think I must."

The old man sighed deeply and closed his eyes, and presently a tear rolled down his cheek. "Do you think I am forgiven, Monsieur Bienvenu?" he asked, and then he fell silent without any change in his position. Meditating, he had died.

Master Bienvenu stood and made sure the apprentice was all right before he left. The plague would only take effect once Master G was laid to rest, and if the boy had any sense, he would bury him far away from the fortress. The bishop departed just as the sun was rising, and the only zombie that disturbed him was right outside of Digne. He punched it out hardly before he even knew it was there.

**There we are. I hope you enjoyed it. Leave a comment and tell me what you think about it—flames…anything, really. Sometimes flames are fun.**

**A note—this is all I was planning to write before Valjean comes in about the bishop. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be writing to the book, but, really…I would rather not go over the exact same things Victor Hugo went over—sorry.**


	2. Chapter 2: The Stranger

Leaning on P&P & Zombies= Not too much. It's literally the book WITH zombies, so it's written by both Jane Austen and the guy who…wrote it. Haha. But I'm too lazy to do that…and it kind of would be plagiarism.

Kinda. Which is too bad, because I can't stand my writing. I feel as if it drones on and on and on…

A note-was it weird that the bishop's stick was hollowed out? 'Cause I thought it was sort of cool.

The plague had gotten worse. Early October sent a buzz around Digne in the same year—1815.

The ninjas of Digne observed a mysterious man walking into the town. Just passing through perhaps? They hoped so. Even to the highly trained ninjas he looked suspicious; ripped shirt, threadbare trousers, and a tattered grey jacket that had obviously been patched many times. He carried on his back a new soldier's knapsack and a large spear with a zombie head mounted impressively near the tip. As he passed the houses, he pulled the brim of his cap down, concealing most of his face. His beard was too long, some observed, and was matted with blood; most likely his own (not an uncommon thing.) He must have been walking all day, for he had stopped to drink at the public drinking fountain and then again further on.

At first the people observing him thought he would just pass through, coming from the South, but it was seen that at the corner of the Rue Poichevert he turned to the Town Hall and entered, coming back out fifteen minutes later.

The stranger then went toward the inn Croix-de-Colbas. The owner was esteemed because of his connections with a man in Grenoble, who was a famous zombie slayer. Jacquin Labarre, the owner of the Croix-de-Colbas, was always spoken of as 'the cousin of Labarre—slayer of the undead.'

It was the best in the district, with full services plus a training/practice area for the deadly arts near the kitchen; the kitchen being the entrance. The stranger went by way of that door, walking in and looking around. The innkeeper, who was the cook as well, was slicing something, giving an exaggerated battle cry each time he did. In the next room, the stranger could hear similar cries as a party of waggoners had decided to practice their aim while they waited for dinner.

A few large birds were cooking on a spit, a few fish cooking on the stove. A zombie head was floating in a jar of liquid near the hearth with an expression that said, "Braaaaaaains!"

The innkeeper waited a moment after the stranger opened the door, listening for uneven footsteps or a groan. When he was sure it wasn't a zombie who had entered, he said, "What can I do for you, Monsieur?"

"I need a meal and a bed," returned the stranger.

"By all means—" He looked up at the stranger and added, "—provided you can pay."

"Yes, I have money." The stranger held up a shabby leather purse from his jacket pocket.

"Then come in, come in, I'll put that head somewhere if you please." He gestured to the zombie head on the man's spear.

"No thank you," the man replied shortly, sitting by the fire, but keeping his spear in his hand. The innkeeper examined him, while still trying to look busy.

"Will dinner soon be ready?" the stranger asked.

"Quite soon." The innkeeper, Jacquin Labarre, was a bit suspicious of this man. He seemed to be a free-lance zombie slayer. Probably not the sort he'd want in his inn. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to a blood-covered lad who had just walked in. "And get that blood off as soon as possible," he added. "Inhale that stuff for too long and you'll catch the plague, you imbecile." He whacked the boy lightly on the head and sent him off to the Town Hall.

The stranger heard none of this. "Will dinner soon be ready?" he asked again, later. He was watching the zombie head on the hearth intently.

"Quite soon!" As soon as the innkeeper growled this, the boy came back—clean now—and gave him the same slip of paper. There was other writing on it, he had gotten his reply.

The innkeeper read it eagerly and then stopped, thinking a moment. After reflecting on his decision, he sent the lad away and went to the stranger. "I'm sorry—Monsieur? I can't have you staying here." His sword was on hand if he needed it.

The man stood up, almost knocking the pickled zombie head over. "What?! Are you afraid I shan't pay—I will, I'll even pay in advance if you—"

"It's not that."

"Well?"

"Well, I haven't got a room free. A whole band of ninjas came and then the waggoners…and the rooms on the Northern side are still infested with undead …" They were working on that—Lord knows where they came from.

"Put me in the stable, then," the stranger said calmly.

"I couldn't—the old training equipment takes up half, the horses take the other."

"Then the hay loft—"

"Is occupied by the bodies of slain undead."

"Look, we can talk about it after dinner—"

"I can't offer you dinner."

The stranger started. "But…but I'm dying of hunger! I've walked all day—I must have made twelve leagues at least!"

"There's nothing to spare," the innkeeper said firmly.

The stranger laughed both from exasperation and anger. He jabbed a thumb toward the spit. "What about that?!"

"It's all reserved."

"Reserved! By who on Earth?!"

"The waggoners."

"How many are there?"

"There are twelve."

"Look here, I am at an inn and I am hungry. There's enough there to fill twenty easily. I'm stopping here," the stranger said, not raising his voice.

The innkeeper had had absolutely enough. He pulled his sword from its sheath, which had been resting next to the door. In a battle stance, he pointed his sword at the stranger. "Get. Out," he growled through his teeth. The stranger turned around, seeing how uncomfortably close the sword was to his face.

He gripped his spear tighter and opened his mouth to say something, but the innkeeper cut him off and said in a low voice, "Enough talk, you. We know who you are. Your name is Jean Valjean, isn't it?" His sword glinted menacingly in the light from the fire. "And do you want to know _what_ you are? Look, there's a note from the _Mairie_ on that counter over there." He jerked his head in that direction. "Take it. Can you read?"

The stranger stared at the piece of paper for a long while until he reached over and took it. "I'd _like_ to treat everyone politely. Kindly go away before I do something I'll regret," the innkeeper said darkly. His sword glinted again and, as the stranger began to leave, his carefully put it back in its sheath.

The stranger left without another word, going away from the inn and down a random street. He didn't look back; he didn't want to. He knew what he would see: the innkeeper and others looking at him; pointing and whispering. A humiliated man, crushed by misfortune, doesn't look back.

Instead of turning to look back at them, he went down the streets without knowing where he was going or why. A sound came from behind him and cut through his soul, it seemed. A moan; the moan of…

He turned around and saw three female zombies scrambling toward him. One's skin was the color of ash, meaning she'd been dead for longer. The other two were quite young. His fatigue was so great he'd almost forgotten that he needed to find lodging, and was happened upon by _them._

Being caught by surprise, he stumbled back a bit, gripping his spear. As they came dangerously near to him, the young ones running at top speed but the old one closer to him, he discarded the zombie head on his spear and ran the old one through. A small plume of dust came out her back with the tip of the spear, and she crumpled to the ground.

He whipped around and kicked the other one under her chin, breaking her neck. He stabbed her to make sure she was gone, and then turned toward the third one. She had already gotten close enough to grab his arm and was in the act of showing off her meat-filled mouth when he sliced her head off. He narrowly avoided the blood, although some splattered on his arm. With a small nod, he mounted the first zombie's head on the spear.

He went to a nearby pool of muddy water, examined it, and decided it was safe. Taking a handful, he washed the blood off to the best of his ability. Most of it came off, and besides, he wouldn't be inhaling the aromas of his arm anytime soon.

As he walked along in search of an inn, he sorted out his thoughts. So the better, bigger inn was closed to him. He still needed a place to stay…so he would look for other places—taverns for the poor. Any place would do, as long as he got away from these streets.

He finally found one, a tavern at the end of the Rue de Chauffaut. He glanced in the window at a low-ceilinged room, lighted by lamps made of shrunken heads, which the poor used as lanterns or lamps in those days. A few men were drinking and a stew pot bubbled over the fire. The scene was pleasing, and the stranger took the side door in.

The innkeeper said, "Who's that?" without looking up.

"I'm a traveler looking for a meal and a bed."

"Come in, then, friend. We can give you both." The stranger put down his knapsack and the innkeeper said, "Come and warm yourself by the fire. Oh, and I can take care of that head for you."

The stranger nodded. Maybe it was a custom here to let the host take care of your zombie heads until the morning?

He sat down by the hearth while the innkeeper took the head and set it on one of the tables. Just as everyone was getting settled, a fish-merchant, who had had bad business ever since the plague had started to spread in food, recognized the man as the one Labarre had turned out.

He beckoned the innkeeper, who went to him, and they talked in hushed tones for a minute or two before the host went over and tapped the stranger on the shoulder. "You must clear out of here."

The stranger gritted his teeth for a second, and then looked up. "You know?"

The innkeeper nodded.

"They turned me out…"

"You're being turned out here too."

"But…where am I to go?!" he asked desperately.

"_Somewhere_ else." The stranger left without taking his zombie head.

The next place he tried was a prison. He pulled the bell-chain hanging next to the doorway and a panel in the door slid back.

"Monsieur," the stranger said, taking off his cap quickly, "would you be so kind as to let me in and give me lodging for the night? The undead count is rising; I cannot sleep outside."

The voice of the doorkeeper said, "If you want to be let in, get arrested. This is a prison." The panel closed, and then slid open again. "And don't come complaining to _me_ about the undead." The panel closed again.

He came next to a one-storied house with a lighted window. He looked in and saw a family of four having a happy time inside. Among the common household things, a double-barrel shot gun, a pair of nunchucks, and a long sword stood out, hanging on the wall opposite the window.

Such a happy household must also be kind, he reasoned. Perhaps they would be so kind as to let him sleep in their shed.

He tapped on the window a few times until he finally got the father's attention. He picked up a shrunken head lamp and his gun and strode to the door. His wife stood up as well, reaching for the sword.

When he opened the door, the stranger began to plead for food and lodging. The master of the house relaxed a little when he saw that the one knocking was not a zombie.

"Who are you?" he asked the stranger.

"I come from Puy-Moisson-please, Monsieur, would you spare some food and your shed for the night? I can pay."

"Of course I wouldn't refuse any of that to a living man who can pay…but why not go to an inn?" the man asked suspiciously.

"There…are no rooms."

"What! Did you try Labarre?"

"Yes, I went there first."

"And…?" The man's wife finally decided to take the sword. He smiled vaguely at his wife's mistrust.

"He…wouldn't have me…" the stranger said slowly.

"What about that other place, the Rue de Chauffaut? There must be a room there."

"He wouldn't have me either."

The man's wife cried out in surprise and her husband understood immediately. "You're the man!" his wife cried, before he could. She gripped the sword tighter and bore her teeth like a wild cat. It was not uncommon for a woman to speak for her husband during the time of the Undead Plague.

"Get out," the husband growled, holding up his gun.

"Please! A glass of water, I beg of you—"

"A glass of your own blood's what you'll get! Get out before I shove this sword up your nose!" the wife shouted from inside the house, standing protectively in front of the children.

The door was slammed and the stranger staggered back into the street. He saw the limping figure of a zombie at the end of the road, and moved in the other direction.

He moved in the direction of what he thought to be a small hut. It wasn't very tall at all and looked temporary. He would get over his hunger if he could find somewhere to stay hidden from the undead, which constantly patrolled the streets.

He hopped a fence dividing it from the road and examined it. Unless they had turned while in the hut, no zombie could ever figure out how to get into it. He relaxed slightly and wriggled in.

After a moment of lying, the stranger began to unbuckle his knapsack. At that moment he heard wheezy moaning coming from above him. He looked up and found himself lying dangerously close to a male zombie's face. The zombie's skin was filmy, as if it was shedding. Blood and meat poured out of its mouth and dripped onto the man's forehead. He screamed and scrambled out of the hut, over the fence, and down the street at top speed.

As he reached a dead end in the road, he wiped off his face as much as he could. At least it wasn't the zombie's blood—still; the thought of another human's pureed intestines on his face was a bit disturbing.

He sank onto a large stone by the side of the road. "Even the undead have shelter," he groaned out loud. He thought briefly of leaving Digne and going into the woods ahead, but at night newly dead zombies rose, and the woods were not the best place to be.

He sighed deeply. Nothing seemed to be going right, nothing at all. It was so frustrating—why did it have to be this way for him? He was a man like any other, and he was to become a midnight snack just because of a yellow slip of paper.

"I may as well die sleeping," he told himself, and found his way to the cathedral square, in which the Dojo of Digne was as well. He glared at the church and made his way across, lying down, exhausted, on a stone bench outside of a printing shop.

An old woman came out of the dojo and saw him. "What are you doing?" she asked the stranger.

"Can't you see what I am doing? I am sleeping here," he responded angrily.

"Sleeping? On this bench? The undead will surely make a meal of you." The woman was a ninja, Madame R, one of the highest ranking women where she came from, looking forward to becoming a Grand Mistress or at least a First Class Slayer.

"I'll manage."

"Were you a soldier?"

"Yes."

"Why not an inn?"

"I have no money."

"Hmm," she mused. "I have four sous in my purse."

"Better than nothing." He took the four sous.

"It won't get you into an inn, but…" She changed her train of thought. "Are you sure you've tried everything? You can't possibly sleep here, this is one of the most dangerous places in Digne at night. Surely someone will take you in out of charity." She nodded firmly.

"I've knocked on every door."

"You can't possibly mean--!"

"I've been turned away everywhere."

"Well," the woman said, touching his arm and gesturing to the building beside the bishop's palace, "everywhere?"

"Yes."

"Even that one?"

"…no…"

"Then do so!" she exclaimed, pulling him up and waiting until he reached the door before she walked away. A zombie ran at her at top speed and she kicked its head off without batting an eye.

**My gosh, this is going to be so epic toward the end. I have a very special treat for Javert fans…especially J/JVJ fans…**

**This chapter had me leaning a bit more of Victor Hugo's writing, because there's so much dialogue and his lines tend to be short.**

**I actually went to see Zombieland this weekend—I recommend!**


	3. Chapter 3: Talk of a New Breed

**Hello! I'm sorry I was gone for so long. I hope I can crank out this chapter. I've been so busy (procrastinating) over the past month. :P This is going to be a really short chapter. I just want to make it clear that I haven't been thrown in prison or something. I could even have Javert verify.**

**-**

That evening the Bishop of Digne, having taken an early break from his afternoon training sessions, retired to his room to take care of some business. Of course, his work was never done, but what better time to take care of it but on a long, empty day?

He pored over a large book, taking notes as we know he did. At about eight o'clock, he looked up to see Mme Magloire hanging up her black nunchucks by the door and entering his room to get the silverware for dinner. He stood and went out of the room after her, into the rectangular dining room of the house, and the door to the street that was mentioned earlier.

The two women were chatting before the meal was served, gossiping, it seemed. They looked a nice picture, two old women talking quietly, interested fully in what the other was speaking about.

In fact, they were gossiping. Mme Magloire was talking of how she always knew locking the door properly was the right thing to do. There'd been talk about a spike in the zombie population, and not just slow ones. Different breeds. Blood-hungry, not brain-hungry; and the diseases that made the people into these monsters were easily contractible. On top of that, she said, there'd been talk of a vagabond with a prison record roaming the town.

"…shuttering and barricading the house! And making sure the doors are _securely locked_," Mme Magloire was saying as the bishop entered.

He paid no attention to her, sitting to warm himself by the fire.

"Did you hear what Mme Magloire said, brother?" Mlle Baptistine asked cautiously. The talk about zombies worried her to no end, and to think her brother—her _bishop —_was going out in those conditions was truly terrifying. What if _he_, of all people, contracted this strange disease?

"A bit," he replied, turning around and smiling warmly at the old servant. "Well, what is it, Meme Magloire? Am I to understand we are in some grave danger?"

The old woman told the story again, her voice dramatic. "…and it shall be the end of us all, I can just _feel_ it!"

"Well, then," he said slowly. "What is this about a vagabond, my dear?"

She told the story of the man as well, mixed with rumor and exaggeration. Honestly, she didn't mean to stretch the truth, but with all this excitement, what was really true anyway?

"Honestly?" asked the bishop, his eyebrows shooting up, looking interested. This only encouraged Mme Magloire.

"Oh, yes, Monseigneur, and I was just telling Mademoiselle about the _doors_. Oh, Monseigneur, the _doors_. What are we to do if an intelligent breed of undead evolved?" she asked frantically.

"The doors, Madame?"

"The _doors_—oh, and this is certainly the least of our worries, I know, but what about the man? That dreadful man—he must be either very stupid or incredibly smart to be out there with all of those…things…on the run. What if _he_ were to—" She cut herself off. "And I know Mademoiselle agrees with me—"

"I agree with what my brother says, because I know he's right," Mlle Baptistine said firmly.

Her interruption was ignored. "What we both agree on is that the house is simply not safe. I could go down to the locksmith at Paulin Musebois and have the door done up with bolts. Considering Monseigneur's habit of…letting people into the house…I think it's a good idea. Don't you agree, though? Heavens! If someone were to come in without asking! If it were undead, or a—"

At that moment, there was a heavy knock on the door and everyone in the room but the bishop tensed.

"Come in," he said with a small smile.


End file.
